


A Series of Firsts

by Kalimyre



Series: D/s AU [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bondage, Dom/sub, First Time, M/M, Sub!Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D/s AU where everyone is either a dom or a sub.  Mycroft is a sub, and has hidden it for most of his life.  Now he's learning to accept it with Lestrade's help. Sequel to Hiding in Plain Sight and will make more sense if that is read first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Weekend

“Kneel,” Lestrade says, pointing at the floor in front of him.  Mycroft does, settling onto his knees.  Lestrade’s hand lands on his shoulder.  He pulls until Mycroft leans forward and rests his forehead against Lestrade’s leg.  “Good,” he says, his voice low.  “Down now, shh, that’s good, just like that.  Hands behind your back.  Lace your fingers together and close your eyes.” 

Mycroft sinks, slower this time now that he’s not so exhausted.  He can feel thought falling away, fading into insignificance, vanishing into the fog.  It’s a white swirl that surrounds his mind and wraps him in quiet.  The muscles in his back relax one at a time, and his shoulders curve inward, slack, his arms hanging limp behind him.  Lacing his fingers together means that his hands stay bound with no effort.  He lets the line of his body curl, the stiffness going out of his spine.  Lestrade strokes his hair and waits, murmuring quietly to him, all approval and encouragement.  Mycroft soaks it up.  He loses the awareness of the rug under his knees, the feeling of his knuckles pressing together, the sensation of his clothes against his skin.  He floats, tethered by Lestrade’s hand and the warmth of his leg beneath his cheek.

“Perfect,” Lestrade says.  His voice grows firm.  “Listen now.  I’m going to set some ground rules.  You listening?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says.  He rubs his jaw against Lestrade’s thigh. 

“Good.  When we’re alone, you’re my sub.  I sit down, I expect you at my feet.  I tell you to do something, you do it.  I will discipline you if necessary, but you will always know why, and it will be fair.  I’m not into inflicting pain for fun.  I don’t micromanage; you’re an adult and you don’t need me to tell you to get dressed or use the bathroom.  You don’t need to ask permission for basic things like that.  With me so far?”

Mycroft nods.  There is a faint, dazed smile on his face, and he presses closer to Lestrade.  The rules are comforting, a shelter around him, keeping him protected.

“Very good,” Lestrade says.  “I knew you’d be a quick study.  At home should be easy.  There are also rules for when you’re not at home.”

Mycroft can feel his shoulders tighten as he comes up a bit.  “You said… in public, you said…”  It’s hard to put the words together, to muster an argument.  He’s still deep and he doesn’t want to talk back; he wants to stay on his knees and accept whatever he’s told.  He wants to let the rules wrap him in a thick blanket.  He wants to be good.

“Shh,” Lestrade says, “no, it’s okay, stay.  Listen.  I won’t try to dominate you in public; we agreed, don’t worry.  But I do want you to keep me informed.  Text me when you’re on your way home so I can meet you here.  If you’re not going to be home that night, let me know.  I won’t be angry if you’re late or you don’t get here; I just want to know.  I’ll also tell you if I’m stuck on a case and can’t meet you.  Understood?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says.  The tension goes out of him as he slides back down, and Lestrade makes a pleased murmur.

“Good, perfect,” Lestrade says.  He rubs the nape of Mycroft’s neck, smoothes his hair back from his forehead, threads his fingers through it.  “You’re doing so well, we’re almost done, good.  One more rule—when we’re alone, stop calling me Lestrade.  My name is Greg.  You want to use my title in public, fine, that’s reasonable and professional.  At home, we don’t need that.”

“Okay,” Mycroft says.  “Greg.”  He smiles; Sasha had wanted him to call her ma’am all the time.  When she was angry, or punishing him (usually one and the same), he had to call her mistress.  He likes Greg better. 

“Brilliant,” Greg says.  “I like the way that sounds.  Anything you want me to know or you want to ask?”

Mycroft shakes his head.  There are things probably, things he should ask, things he should say, but he can’t worry about them now.  If something comes up, Greg will take care of it.  He doesn’t need to think, to anticipate everything, to plan every detail.  He can let go.

“All right,” Greg says.  “We’re done with the rules now.  All done, you don’t need to pay attention now, just relax.  Take a deep breath, and let it out slow.  Go on, yes, just like that.  Now another.  Perfect, keep doing that, I want to feel you going under.” 

It’s not easy to slide deeper, to let the sound of Greg’s voice become a jumble of soothing sound.  It’s been a long time and there is still a tiny part of him, a stubborn piece in the back of his mind, that wants him to stay alert.  That piece says _no, anyone could walk in, he could do anything, you have to stay focused.  Always aware of your surroundings, always on guard, can’t drop this far_.  He can let Greg’s words fade, he can even let go of physical sensation and drift, but he can’t stop listening for a knock at the door, the buzz of a text message, a footstep that says they’re not alone.  He winds up stuck in the middle, deep enough to show all the outward signs of submission, enough to satisfy Greg, but not enough to unwind the knot of tension and mistrust at his centre.  It’s had years to build and will not let go without a fight.

*

The weekend is over fast.  Mainly because they spend a lot of it sleeping; Mycroft has years of chronic insomnia piled up and tends to fall asleep whenever he is taken down for more than a few minutes.  Greg doesn’t appear to mind.  He watches the dark circles under Mycroft’s eyes fade, the colour return to his skin, and looks proud. 

When Monday comes, Mycroft wakes slowly to the feeling of Greg stroking his chest.  Greg’s knuckles run up and down the line of his sternum, pressing enough for him to feel, as if he can reach that deep knot of worry.  Mycroft wonders for a blurry, nervous moment if Greg can see it, can sense it somehow.  But no, he can tell Greg isn’t aware.  He looks calm and happy, head propped in one hand, grinning sleepily down at him. 

“Hey,” Greg says.  “Time to come up now.  We’ve got work.”

Mycroft nods.  The quiet clings to him and he goes through his morning routine on auto-pilot.  He stares into space as he showers and gets dressed, and when he finds Greg sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea, he automatically sinks to the floor at his feet.  Greg lets him stay there for a little while, leaning against his leg, but he eventually tugs at Mycroft’s shirt.

“Come on,” he says.  “I know, I don’t want you to either, but it’s got to be done.  Sit in a chair, have some tea.  There’s toast if you want it.”

It’s hard, dragging himself to his feet and settling into the chair.  Even the choice— _there’s toast, if you want it—_ is jarring.  It’s not an order.  He feels cold, and he wraps his hands around the hot mug of tea, inhaling the steam.  Greg watches him over the rim of his cup.

“Are you all right?” Greg asks.

It takes him a moment to clear the fog and remember he needs to speak out loud.  “Yes,” he says.  “Fine.  Thank you for the tea.”

Greg narrows his eyes.  “I won’t tolerate dishonesty, Mycroft.”  His voice is sharp, hard-edged.  “If I ask you how you are, I expect you to tell me.”

Mycroft blinks and sits up straighter.  Something swoops and tightens unpleasantly in his chest.  He’d forgotten what it’s like, being chastised by a dom, how it feels to know he’s disappointed someone.  “I’m sorry,” he says.  “I’m… I’m not used to…”

“Okay,” Greg says gently.  “It’s okay, this is new, I get that.  It’s all right.”  He reaches across the table, lays his hand over Mycroft’s.  His thumb rubs Mycroft’s palm.  Mycroft closes his eyes and rubs back, squeezing Greg’s fingers.

“It’s difficult,” Mycroft admits.  “I haven’t spent a weekend like that in a very long time.  It’s hard to shake off.”

Greg nods.  His eyes are warm and kind, his hand a soothing weight.  “Can’t just turn it off and on like a tap, right.  That’ll take practice.  Call me if you need to, during the day.”

“All right,” Mycroft says, but thinks that he won’t.  It would be too tempting to let the sound of Greg’s voice roll over him, to relax and let his guard down.  He can’t risk it, not at work.  He has to be careful every second, always keeping up the act.

They have their tea and toast.  Greg is dressed in a different suit; Mycroft vaguely remembers being left cuffed on the bed for a while on Sunday while Greg left and came back.  He thinks there might be some of Greg’s clothes in his closet now, but he didn’t really notice.  (And that is strange in itself: he notices _everything._ )  It was easy not to worry about it at the time, though.  They were his cuffs so he could have gotten out of them at any time if he really needed to, but Greg had told him to stay and he had stayed.  He was good.  Greg had praised him warmly for it and it was brilliant and he wants more than anything to go back to that and not be facing a long day of pretending.

Greg leaves first since he’s got to catch the tube.  He stands by the door and holds Mycroft for a long moment, squeezing the back of his neck in one hand.  Mycroft rests against his shoulder and breathes in his scent, already growing familiar. 

“Remember to text me when you’re on the way home,” Greg reminds him.  “I’ll try to meet you here.  You’ll be all right?”

Mycroft nods.  Greg kisses him on the forehead, and then he’s gone.  Mycroft blinks at the closed door a few times, then lifts his chin and makes his face blank.  He methodically gathers up what he’ll need, files and phone and umbrella and by the time he’s ready, he feels more settled.  It’s hard coming back, giving up what he had all weekend, but it’s only for a few hours.  He’s done much harder things, and without the promise of comfort to follow them. 

There are walls he’s built up over time, and they’re thick, these walls.  Solid, dug in, rising high over his head.  At work, they protect him, but at home Greg expects him to just let them drop and then rebuild them every morning.  As he gets into the car waiting faithfully for him at the curb, Mycroft thinks maybe it would just be better to leave them up.  He won’t be able to submit fully, won’t be able to really let go, but even the partial satisfaction he’s gotten from the last two days has filled him with calm.  He feels well-rested and, for the most part, happy.  It’s better than he’s felt for most of his life, really.  It’s enough.  It will have to be enough.


	2. First Real Kiss

By the end of the week, Mycroft is, if not settled, at least a little more comfortable in making the change from a sub at home to his mask at work.  It’s still hard in the mornings since he doesn’t want it to end, but Greg tries to ease him through it and Mycroft is resilient.  He adapts.  It is always a relief to get home; usually Greg is there waiting for him (he appropriated a key as if it was his due and Mycroft didn’t object). Sometimes he comes later, if he’s working, but it is always something to look forward to.  Mycroft has a reason to leave work on time and actually starts keeping somewhat regular hours.  His assistant looks at him askance a few times but seems glad of the extra free time.

He’s sleeping well, he’s being taken down and cared for every night, and he spends most of the time wondering how he could have possibly been so fortunate as to meet Greg Lestrade.  The rest of the time, though, he worries.

Greg is such an excellent dom, confident and commanding, so good to him; surely he could have his pick of subs.  Surely he could have one who didn’t have to hide all the time.  One who was young and pretty.  One who could let go all the way, who could trust and relax and fully submit.  (He doesn’t think Greg knows he can’t, though.  Probably he doesn’t know.  Maybe.)

More, Greg doesn’t seem inclined to touch him.  Oh, he touches casually all the time, his hands stroking over Mycroft, smoothing his hair, sliding over his back or his shoulders.  He touches with the casual ease of a man certain of his welcome.  He is proprietary and affectionate, and he likes Mycroft within arm’s reach.  After half a lifetime of icy distance and loneliness, Mycroft revels in the contact.  He feels like his skin is the desert in a sudden rain, parched earth soaking up something it has gone too long without.  He is aware of sensations all the time now.  The soft material of his shirt against his skin, the sleek texture of a fine leather armrest under his fingertips, the tingling in his scalp when the wind ruffles his hair.  He’s denied everything his body wanted for so long and now it is slowly coming back to life.

So he is quite aware that Greg doesn’t seem interested in touching him in other ways. 

At first, he assumes Greg isn’t interested.  Isn’t attracted to him.  The man is devastatingly handsome, tanned and fit and charming; with his silvering hair and his roguish good looks he is clearly out of Mycroft’s league.  Mycroft tells himself he is fine with that.  He already has more than he ever expected or hoped for.  It’s too much to ask.

But he is not one to ignore evidence, and all the evidence says that Greg, in fact, _is_ attracted.  His pulse and respiration increase when he curls up close with Mycroft at night.  Greg’s eyes dilate slightly when he looks at him, and Mycroft has woken up more than once to find Greg pressed against him, half-hard in his sleep, nuzzling sleepily at the back of his neck. 

He could ask, of course, but the idea is daunting.  What if Greg laughs?  What if he scoffs in disbelief?  _Wishful thinking, Mycroft.  You’re a challenge as a sub, I like a challenge, but that doesn’t mean I want you.  You’re an interesting puzzle but once I’ve solved it, I’m moving on.  Don’t get ideas._

Most of the time, he knows this is a foolish, baseless fear.  Greg is not cruel; he’s never callous or hurtful.  He wouldn’t say such a thing.  If he were to turn Mycroft down, to say he’s not interested, he would at least do it kindly.

This is not especially comforting. 

Mycroft sighs and stares out the window.  He’s on the way home, it’s Friday, and he has a weekend with Greg to look forward to.  He has so many reasons to be grateful for what he has.  He frowns and leans back against the seat, then closes his eyes.  He tries a few deep breaths.  Greg usually wants him down immediately when he gets home and it’s hard to make that transition when he’s wound up and tense from a day at work.  But he does want to be good, he wants so much to please Greg and make him proud, so he tries.  It helps, sometimes, if he can relax a little on the way.

His phone buzzes, and he jumps.  He fumbles the thing out of his pocket.  New message: _Working late.  Call me when you get home._

Mycroft feels an odd swirl of relief and disappointment as he replies: _On my way now, will do as you ask._  

_Good._

Mycroft smiles faintly; it’s not the same as hearing Greg say it, but it is approval and it helps.

When he gets home, he takes the time to change out of his suit, dressing simply in loose cotton trousers and a plain blue tee shirt.  He tries not to think.  He focuses on the feeling of the material sliding over his skin, on the carpet beneath the soles of his feet, the familiar cedar scent of his closet.  It’s much easier this way, this gradual slide into quiet, rather than dropping to his knees as soon as he comes through the door.

He settles onto the bed and stretches, pointing his toes and spreading his arms wide.  He takes the time to relish the soft blanket beneath him, the way the slight ache in his back eases as he lies there.  Finally, when he feels settled, he brings the phone to his ear and calls Greg.

“Hi, Mycroft,” he answers.  He sounds tired, but pleased, his voice a low rumble in his ear.

“Greg.”  Mycroft is already halfway down, and feels no need to keep speaking.  He was told to call and he has called, so he waits, peaceful, for more instructions.

“Tell me where you are,” Greg says.  “Describe it.”

“In bed,” Mycroft says.  “Lying on top of the blankets.  I changed into sleep clothes.”  He trails off, blinking slowly.  He doesn’t know if Greg wants more details, but this is not something to worry about.  If Greg wants more, he’ll say so.  Mycroft only has to listen, and do what he’s told.

“You’re slurring,” Greg says.  “Already down?  Or are you just tired?”

“Not tired,” Mycroft replies.  It’s true—he feels lethargic, floaty, but it’s early and this week he’s been sleeping very well indeed. 

“I see.”  Greg sounds thoughtful.  “Listen now.  Focus.  You with me?”

“I’m listening,” Mycroft agrees.

“I want you to get up and look in the top dresser drawer.  There are new leather cuffs in there.  Use them to bind your hands in front of you.  Be careful, these ones don’t have a release catch.  You’ll be in them until I come to get you.  Understand?”

Mycroft nods, and then remembers Greg can’t see him.  “Yes,” he says.  He’s already pulling the cuffs out.  They’re wide, thick enough to cover his wrist and part of his forearm.  The binding holds them close together.  To fit into them, he’ll have to fold his arms over each other, and once in he won’t be able to use his hands.  The idea sends a cold curl of unease through him but he pushes it away.  Greg wouldn’t do this if he didn’t have a plan.  Greg will make sure he is safe.

He sets the phone on the dresser, presses the button to turn the speaker on, and then slides into the cuffs.  The padding is comfortably snug against him.  His arms settle against his ribs once he closes the clasp, and he tugs a little, testing the give.  There is very little.

“I’m in,” he tells Greg.

“Good.”  His voice is a purr, pleased and possessive.  “So good, Mycroft, perfect.  I can’t wait to see you in them.  Now lie on the bed again.  On your back.  Close your eyes.  Tell me when you’re there.”

Direct, specific orders are always comforting and he obeys, settling carefully onto the bed.  He’s tied himself there plenty of times in the past, but it’s different when he knows he can’t get out.  The cuffs are strong, the clasp well designed.  He was able to push it shut against the edge of the dresser, but without the use of his hands, he has no chance of getting it undone.  “There,” he says, raising his voice a little.

“Very good.  Go deeper now, I want you fully under.  Listen to me and relax.  You’re safe, you’re not going anywhere, all you have to do is lie there and wait for me.”  He keeps going, soothing words, and Mycroft lets them take him deeper.  At some point Greg stops talking, but Mycroft is already gone.

*

He’s drifting, but he still can’t stop listening, and when he hears the doorknob move he comes up sharply.  For a moment, there is fear running in a bright, coppery bolt down his spine.  Someone is in the flat and he’s tied and helpless on the bed; why did he agree to this?  But then he recognizes Greg’s footsteps and slumps in relief.  Foolish.  The door was locked (Mycroft has extremely good locks) and only he and Greg have the keys.

He keeps his eyes closed and listens to Greg padding about.  There is a rustle of cloth, the clink of metal on wood ( _belt buckle over a chair, he’s just taken his trousers off,_ Mycroft’s mind supplies), the soft whispery sound of hands on skin.  The bed dips as Greg sits on it.  Mycroft keeps himself very still. 

“Look at you,” Greg says, and puts a hand on his shoulder.  “Those cuffs are perfect.  Look at you waiting, so good.”  He leans forward and trails his fingertips around the edges of the fine leather, leaving sparks of sensation on Mycroft’s arms.  “Come on now, come up, I want to talk to you.”

Mycroft is already most of the way up, has been since the first moment he heard the door opening, but he blinks and stretches as best he can.  He smiles up at Greg and leans into his hand. 

Greg watches him, and his eyes narrow.  “Right,” he says.  “I have a question for you.  When I came in, you were only pretending to be down.  But when I called earlier, it was the real thing.  Why?”

Mycroft freezes and something cold sinks in his belly.  “I… I didn’t…”

“I’ve told you more than once that I won’t stand for being lied to,” Greg says.  “I expect a real answer.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft says.  He curls tighter on the bed, acutely aware of his vulnerability, bound and helpless while Greg leans over him.  “I didn’t mean to.  I tried, I did try, I was down when you told me to be.”  His voice is shaking, rising higher.

“Easy,” Greg soothes him.  He smoothes a hand down Mycroft’s flank, but his eyes are still hard, implacable.  “Just tell me the truth.  I’ll listen, and I’ll decide what to do about it.  All you need to do is talk to me.”

Mycroft nods and swallows.  He knows how to put on a cool tone, how to look utterly unruffled, but that’s part of his dom act and has no place here.  Without it, he’s got nothing to fall back on.  “Usually when I come home, you’re here already,” he begins.  “You want me down right away.  I try, I always try, but it’s hard to make the switch so fast.  Today I had time so I went slow.  I slid into it.  It was nice, I could… it felt good, knowing what was coming.  Knowing I was going to call you and you were going to tell me what to do.  I had that to look forward to.  So I eased in to be ready and that’s why I sounded halfway under when we talked earlier.”

Greg nods.  His face is unreadable.  “And when I came in?”

“I was deep, just as you asked.  As far as I could.  I _did_ try, Greg, I really did.”  He can hear the plaintive note in his voice and he takes a deep breath, steeling himself.  If he’s about to ruin things, he’s at least going to face it with some dignity.  “I couldn’t stop listening though.  I can never quite… it’s hard to let go completely.  I’m still learning to do it.  And I heard you come in, I heard the door and I thought it could be anyone and panicked for just a second.  But then I realized it was you so I stayed still.  I thought you wanted me to be still.  I was just trying to do as you said.”

Greg considers him for a long moment.  “You only did one thing wrong.  Do you know what it was?”

“I didn’t go all the way under when you told me to,” Mycroft says.  “I’m sorry.  I’ve been trying so hard, it was close today, it really was.”

“No,” Greg says.  “You weren’t honest with me.”

“Oh,” Mycroft says.  He frowns down at his bound hands.  The rest of it was all right, then?  He’s so used to listening for subtext and layers of meaning during his work negotiations that it’s hard to take things at face value.  Greg always says exactly what he means, though. 

“If it’s hard for you to drop under as soon as you come home, then you need to tell me,” Greg says.  “I’ll give you more time.  If it makes you uncomfortable to be tied when I’m not here, then say so.  If you’re having trouble relaxing completely, let me know, and I’ll try to find other ways for you to get there.”  He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, and frustration shines through for a moment until he makes his features smooth and patient once again.  “I want to take good care of you, but I can’t do that if you hide everything from me.”

Mycroft drops his gaze, hunching his shoulders inward.  He’s been doing it wrong the whole time, then.  Every time he thought he was being good, trying to follow instructions, he was making it worse.  He’s a natural sub, has been his whole life, this shouldn’t be so difficult.  Now he’s disappointed Greg; he’s proven that he can’t be trusted to tell the truth, and maybe Greg won’t even want to keep trying.  He’ll probably go looking for someone more cooperative, someone who can actually be a proper sub.

“Stop,” Greg says, and Mycroft looks up, startled.  “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”  Greg lies down beside him and puts his arms around Mycroft, gathering him against his chest.  Mycroft lets out a shuddery breath and wriggles closer.  Greg is warm, and his hands are steady, strong against his back.  Mycroft presses his face into the hollow of Greg’s shoulder and breathes in the warm scent of his skin.

“Listen,” Greg murmurs.  “This, right here?  This is what I want to avoid.  Because you’re obviously unhappy.  I can’t tell you what it does to me to see you that way.  It means I have failed to treat you right, I haven’t lived up to my responsibility as your dom.”

“No,” Mycroft says, shaking his head, his words muffled against Greg’s chest.  “No, you… you’re good, you always treat me well, I’m sorry, it’s my fault.”

“Shh,” Greg says.  He runs his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, then squeezes the back of his neck.  “It’s okay.  I’m not angry, and I’m not leaving.  This is normal.  Maybe you don’t know this because you haven’t had a proper dom, one who took care of you—but people don’t just automatically fit together.  They have to work at it.  If something doesn’t feel right to you, that doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.  It means you need to tell me so we can fix it.”

Mycroft nods and presses closer.  There is something liquid and quivery in his chest, pressure in his throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight and takes a long, careful breath.  The relief is intoxicating, leaving him fuzzy and dazed, and he’s glad his hands are still bound or he’d do something embarrassing like clinging to Greg.

“All right,” Greg says.  “I should have said all of that sooner.  I’m going to make it clear now, okay?  If you want something, if you’re worried or confused about something, I want to hear it.  I’m still in charge and if I think it’s best the answer might be no, but I promise to listen.  You understand?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says.  “Thank you.  I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t trying to lie to you, I really wasn’t.  I didn’t think.  I’ve never… I don’t know how to…”

“Okay,” Greg says quietly.  “Okay, all right, shh, easy.  I know.”  He presses a kiss to the top of Mycroft’s head and lingers there, cheek resting against his hair.  “So, more time in the evenings to let you ease under slowly and don’t leave you alone in the flat when you’re restrained.  Anything else?  Now’s the time to tell me.”

Mycroft opens his mouth, then closes it again.  He bites his lip.  Greg is wearing boxers and a thin white undershirt, and he feels warm and firm and alive against Mycroft.  He is very aware of every place their skin touches, the contact sending sparks of sensation through him.  Greg even smells delicious, despite being at work all day: like sun-warmed cotton and freshly turned earth, with a slight tang of coffee.

“Mycroft.”  Greg’s voice is chiding, fond.  “Spit it out.  I promise not to bite.”

_Not even if I asked you to?_ Mycroft quashes that thought fast.  He summons his best casual tone.  “I can’t help noticing that you haven’t tried to… to deepen the physical aspect of our relationship.  Is that something you plan on in the future?”

Greg chuckles softly.  “Only you,” he says.  “Yes, it’s something I plan on.  I didn’t want to rush you.  I gather it’s been quite a while.”

“Oh,” Mycroft says.  He feels a broad, rather silly grin stretch across his face and he hides it against Greg’s shoulder.  “I thought perhaps you weren’t interested.”

“You’re daft,” Greg says.  “Course I’m interested.  Have you not noticed how astonishingly sexy you are?”

Mycroft can’t help a slightly nervous huff of laughter.  “No, not particularly.  But… thank you.”

“Clearly I need to say it more often.”  Greg eases back until he can look at Mycroft.  He cups Mycroft’s jaw in one hand and runs his thumb over his cheekbone.  The richness of the unguarded warmth in his eyes is more than Mycroft can take all at once and he drops his gaze.

“Bit longer, I think,” Greg says quietly.  “But for now…”  He leans in and kisses Mycroft, very lightly, his lips warm and soft.  It is sweet and chaste and Mycroft feels it shoot through him, his mouth tingling and his breath catching in his throat.  Greg kisses again, little pecks at the corners of his mouth, damp teasing brushes against the bow of his upper lip.  At the first flick of his tongue, just barely gliding over his mouth, Mycroft inhales sharply and lets him in.

Greg licks into his mouth slowly, seeming to savour every bit.  He runs the tip of his tongue along the seam of Mycroft’s lips, then in, heat and tingling sensation along the inner edge of his bottom lip.  He nibbles, then licks, and Mycroft makes a low sound and shivers.  Some part of him thinks he should be kissing back, but he’s dizzy with feeling, heat racing over his skin and his head buzzing.  Greg’s hand is firm on his cheek, the other holding the back of his head, and he’s deeply grateful that his own hands are still bound.  He doesn’t have to worry about doing something wrong with them, about whether he should be touching back.  It’s out of his control.

Greg kisses until Mycroft is panting against his mouth, trembling and flushed, and then he gentles the contact.  He goes back to light, sweet touches.  He sighs and nuzzles the line of Mycroft’s jaw, then pulls back.  His eyes are dark and greedy, his mouth pink, lips parted.  He runs his thumb over the damp, tingling curve of Mycroft’s mouth, and smiles. 

“You,” he says.  “Oh, _you_ are going to be worth waiting for.”

Mycroft, half-drunk on kisses and bold with it, asks, “Why wait?”

A startled grin flashes across Greg’s face.  “That’s what I like to see,” he says.  “That’s perfect.  Don’t be afraid to ask for what you want.”

Mycroft soaks up the approval, closing his eyes for a moment.  But: “That’s still a no, isn’t it?”

“Not yet, that’s all,” Greg replies.  “This is new to both of us, especially to you.  I want to get it right.  Tempting as you are—and you’re _very_ tempting, don’t doubt that for a second—I’m not going to rush.  It’s too important.”

Mycroft nods.  He’s disappointed, but he can also admit to himself that he’s a bit relieved.  It’s out of his hands; Greg will tell him when it’s the right time.  Mycroft doesn’t have to worry about it.  It is enough—more than enough—just to know he is wanted.


	3. First Time They Got Caught

Eventually, Mycroft completes his discreet checks of the surveillance cameras around Greg’s place.  He prefers to be the man behind the cameras, not the man in front of them.  There are none trained on his place, and thanks to his intervention, none trained on Greg’s either.  Greg gives him a key and instructs him firmly to keep it. 

Mycroft’s things migrate over to Greg’s place, just as several of Greg’s things have found their way into Mycroft’s flat.  Soon everything he needs to spend a comfortable night is there waiting for him.  Greg’s flat is close to the Yard and he often prefers to stay there on weeknights.  Since Mycroft has a car to pick him up (and he is not willing to have it show up at Greg’s; that would invite too many questions), he changes his travel method and starts taking anonymous black cabs.

His assistant gives him a slightly puzzled glance when he informs her that he’ll no longer need the car service but he does not deign to explain his reasons.  She knows better than to ask.

So it becomes common to spend his weeknights at Greg’s place.  This particular Wednesday starts out like most of the others.  He texts Greg that he’s on the way and receives the reply that Greg is already home.  He begins to relax in the cab.  He focuses on his breathing: long, flat inhales through his nose and slow, measured exhales.  He stares out the window and doesn’t try to focus on anything.  He lets the scenery blur and fade. 

By the time he lets himself into the flat, he’s already feeling calm.  Greg is sitting in his favourite armchair watching telly, a teacup balanced on one armrest.  He glances up and smiles at Mycroft but doesn’t say anything.  Mycroft glides past him.  He strips out of his suit in the bedroom.  He hangs each piece up meticulously: smoothing the material, feeling the fine weave of it under his palms.  His suit has become the symbol of his role; it's his armour at work and taking it off feels like peeling away the layers of the act and getting to the reality underneath.

He steps into loose sleep pants, making a pleased murmur at the light, slippery feeling of the silk.  He pulls one of Greg’s black undershirts over his head.  It smells pleasantly of Greg and he runs his fingertips up and down his chest a few times.  He sways on his feet and curls his toes, digging them into the rug.  He stretches, then hangs his head forward and rolls his neck, letting the tension run out of his shoulders.

When he pads back out into the living room, Greg holds out a hand.  Mycroft takes it and laces their fingers together.  He closes his eyes and concentrates on the slide of Greg’s thumb over his palm.  Then, when Greg tugs at him, he folds easily to his knees.  There is a throw pillow on the floor just for him and he settles comfortably on it.  Greg’s hand curls around the back of his neck and squeezes, then strokes his hair.

Mycroft rests his cheek against Greg’s thigh.  Although Mycroft is dressed for bed, Greg is still wearing his work clothes.  His jacket is slung over a chair, his tie is off and the collar of his shirt is undone, but otherwise he’s fully dressed.  Mycroft likes the dichotomy of it, the feeling of Greg’s clothes in contrast to his own soft cotton and silk. 

He closes his eyes and lets himself drift.  The sound of the telly is meaningless babble, fading into the faint noises of traffic from outside and the rush of his own steady heartbeat in his ears.  He keeps his hands together in his lap, his head down, and he rubs his jaw against Greg’s leg like a cat.

“Hey,” Greg says eventually.  “How’re you feeling?”

Mycroft smiles.  “Good.  Quiet.”

“That’s perfect.”  Greg strokes him, trails his fingertips through Mycroft’s hair and down his neck, squeezes gently over his shoulder.  “You’re getting so good at sliding into this.  I love the look on your face and the way you feel leaning against me.  So good, Mycroft.” 

“Mmm,” Mycroft sighs, his smile growing wider.

“I’m going to talk a bit now,” Greg says.  “You don’t need to pay attention to the words.  It’s just a case I’m working on.  You sit there quiet.  I’ll get your attention when I want you to hear the words again.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Mycroft agrees.  Greg starts to talk and he obediently lets the words fade out.  They are a rumble of pleasant sound, the cadence of his voice soothing.  Mycroft realizes this is helpful and comforting to Greg as well, to be able to talk out his thoughts without interruption, and he feels a swelling sense of accomplishment.  Here is something useful he can do: something to give back to Greg, who has given him so much. 

The television is still on low and Greg continues to speak, rambling, starting and stopping.  Mycroft lets it all float away.  For a while he revels in the simple physical pleasures of Greg’s hand in his hair and the soft texture of his clothes.  He takes some time to marvel over the peaceful well-being that suffuses him.  He’s on his knees, floating in his own head, thoughts faded to nothing. 

Between the telly and Greg’s words, it is perhaps not so surprising that he doesn’t hear the door.

Greg's voice stops short and his hand goes tight on Mycroft’s shoulder, fingers digging in.  Greg’s startled indrawn breath seems very loud.  Mycroft blinks and lifts his head, his thoughts still wrapped in white cotton batting.  A faint sense of alarm starts to press at him through the fog.

“What the _hell_ is this?”

Mycroft goes very still.  _Sherlock.  Oh god, it’s Sherlock_.  He turns his head slowly, as if he can make it not be true if he avoids seeing it.  But no, there is Sherlock standing in the doorway, staring at both of them with his mouth hanging open.  The look of shock on his face is almost comical. 

Greg turns off the television with a flick of the remote.  He leans back in his chair, deliberately casual.  His hand stays firm on Mycroft’s shoulder.  “Sherlock,” he says.  “Ever heard of knocking?”

“I’m waiting for an explanation, Detective,” Sherlock replies.  “What is going on?”

“Not that much of a mystery,” Greg says.  “I’m sure you can connect the dots.  How is it you have keys to my flat, by the way?”

Sherlock gives an impatient huff.  “Irrelevant.  Mycroft, I’m surprised at you.  Are such lengths really necessary to spy on me?”

Mycroft draws himself to his feet and glares at his brother.  “This has nothing to do with _you,_ Sherlock.  Shockingly, I do actually have my own life.  I realize that astronomy was never your best subject but try to recall that you are not the centre of the universe.”

Greg muffles a laugh and Sherlock whips his icy glare back to him.  “And what is this, Lestrade?  Are you really…”  He waves a hand between Greg and Mycroft and wrinkles his nose.

“Yeah,” Greg says calmly.  “Really.  Not that it’s any of your business.  I assume you have some reason for barging in?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again.  He looks unsettled, glancing at Mycroft, then back at Greg.  “The case,” he says eventually.  “It was the hairdresser.  Nobody noticed the left-handed scissors.”

Greg nods.  “Okay, thanks.  Next time text me instead.  And I’ll have that key back.”  He holds out his hand and raises his eyebrows.

Sherlock lifts his chin stubbornly and stares at him.  Greg stares back, calm and level.  His hand stays out.  After a minute Sherlock gives a put-upon sigh, digs the key out of his pocket, and drops it in Greg’s palm.

“Cheers,” Greg says.  “I assume you can see yourself out.”

Sherlock doesn’t move.  His pale eyes dart quickly over both of them and then focus in on Mycroft, sweeping him in one long glance.  Mycroft has seen this particular trick all his life and he knows exactly what is happening.  Sherlock is deducing him.  His hair is disarrayed ( _Greg’s hands were in it_ ), the slight looseness of his tee shirt sleeves ( _not his shirt, stretched to fit Greg_ ), the pillow on the floor ( _he was there for a while and planned to be there longer_ ), the faint glaze to his eyes ( _deep under recently, still fighting off the blur_ ).

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says.  “A word.”  He casts one more unreadable glance at Greg and then walks back out the door, lingering in the hall.  He raises an expectant eyebrow.

Mycroft looks at Greg, who nods at him.  He steels himself and joins Sherlock in the hallway.  He shuts the door most of the way, but not so far that Greg couldn’t listen if he chose. 

“Yes, Sherlock?” he inquires, laying ice thickly in his tone.  Sherlock may be a dom, but he was Mycroft’s baby brother first and he is the one dom who has never been able to intimidate him.

Sherlock stares at him, meeting his eyes for a long moment.  “You’re sleeping more,” he says.

Mycroft tilts his head slightly and purses his lips.  _Stating the obvious, Sherlock._

“You don’t normally do this,” Sherlock adds.  He doesn’t need to clarify what he’s referring to.

Mycroft lifts one shoulder in a tiny shrug.  “That was no longer acceptable.”

A line appears between Sherlock’s eyebrows and his eyes flick back and forth.  “This is… better.  You’re better than you’ve been.”

“Brotherly concern?”  Mycroft is aiming for disdainful but the words come out with honest surprise. 

“Nothing so pedestrian,” Sherlock replies.  “Lestrade appears to be the only Inspector in the Yard with even a modicum of intelligence.  He’s useful.  He provides me with interesting cases.”

“I eagerly anticipate your arrival at the point.”

Sherlock smirks.  “Do try not to completely alienate him.  It would be very inconvenient.”

Mycroft stiffens, stung, and he can’t hide it fast enough.  Sherlock’s eyes go wide for just a moment and he gets that uncertain, uneasy look.  Mycroft is very familiar with that look.  It’s what Sherlock does when he senses he has just said something wrong but can’t understand why it was wrong.

“I can assure you,” Mycroft replies coldly, “I will do no such thing.”

Sherlock nods.  “Good,” he says.  “That’s…”  He offers a somewhat placatory smile.  He lifts one hand as if he’s going to touch Mycroft but then drops it.  His mouth twists wryly.  “This was never our area of expertise.”

“No,” Mycroft agrees.  He unbends a little and allows one corner of his mouth to tug upward.  “I’ll pass your felicitations onto Greg then, shall I?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and whirls, his coat flaring out around him with his usual penchant for the dramatic.  “Good evening, Mycroft,” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves.

Mycroft slips back inside.  He makes it to the sofa before his knees give out and he folds onto the cushions in a heap.  He leans over and braces his elbows against his knees.  He stares at the floor and breathes, feeling his own heartbeat as a series of thudding lurches in his chest.

Greg sits beside him and puts a hand on the centre of his back.  “All right, steady now.  Breathe for me, slow down.  It’s okay.”

Mycroft's short laugh has more than a touch of hysteria about the edges.  “My brother just walked in on us while I was _on my knees at your feet._ There is no possible definition of the word ‘okay’ that fits this situation.”

“You handled it well,” Greg says.  “Very calm.”

“An act,” Mycroft replies.  “Exceedingly polished through a lifetime of practice.  Lucky for me he didn’t take my pulse.”

“Right, I understand, but a _good_ act,” Greg says.  “Seemed to me that in his own weird Sherlock way he was happy for you.”

“Then I should count my blessings, shouldn’t I?” Mycroft retorts.  “Sherlock is _happy_ for me, that’s all that matters.”

“Careful,” Greg says, a note of warning in his voice.  “I realize you’re upset, but you don’t take it out on me.”

Mycroft snaps his teeth shut on the instinctive icy reply.  His head is spinning, his stomach tied in anxious knots.  He was floating peacefully, well under, only ten minutes before and had to come up very rapidly to face Sherlock, and now Greg’s firm tone of command is pushing him under again and it’s all too fast.  His life with Greg exists in a bubble far removed from his daily life outside their homes and that worked for him but now the real world is intruding into his escape, his safe place, and he doesn’t know where the walls belong.

He puts a hand over his mouth to keep quiet and hunches, curving his back until his head nearly brushes his knees.  His fingers are tingling and numb and his chest aches and he thinks vaguely that he should breathe but his throat has closed up and there's no air left in the room.

“ _Mycroft._ ”  Greg’s voice is sharp with alarm.  “Listen, _listen_ to me.  Focus, right here, come on.”  His hand is strong on the back of Mycroft’s neck, pushing him further down until he spills to the floor on his knees.  Greg crouches beside him.  “Deep breaths,” he says.  “That’s all you need to do right now.  Just that one thing.”

Being on the floor with Greg’s hand pressing down on him is comforting, stabilizing.  The stern, direct orders are even better.  They give him a guide, a way out.  He only has to follow.  He breathes and lets his shoulders sag forward until he’s curled into a tight ball.  Greg stays close.  He feels contained, wrapped up in this one small pocket of space, protected.

Eventually the constriction eases and it doesn’t feel like he’s forcing air through a pinhole.  Greg strokes his back and murmurs quietly.  His fingers slide up to Mycroft’s neck and take his pulse, then back down, smoothing over the line of his spine.

“Okay,” Greg says.  “Good, that’s good, exactly what I asked for.  Good job.  You ready to sit back up now?”

Mycroft nods and uncurls.  His head aches with a dull throb and his throat feels raw.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t know what that was.”

“You had a little panic attack,” Greg replies. 

“Oh.”  Mycroft blinks down at the floor between his knees.  He can’t seem to muster a proper response.  He’s suddenly exhausted.  “I’m sorry,” he says again, for lack of any other words.

“No, my fault,” Greg says.  “I set you off when I tried to take you down again so soon after everything.”  He cups Mycroft’s face in both hands, lifts it, and kisses his forehead.  “I’m sorry.  I’ll be more careful.”

Mycroft has no reply for that.  It’s very rare for a dom to apologize, and certainly not to a sub.  Greg’s hands are warm and soothing on his face and he leans into them. 

“Now,” Greg begins, “let’s think this through.  Sherlock already knew you were a sub, right?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies. 

“He ever give you any trouble about it before?”

“No.  It’s off limits.  We don’t discuss it.” 

Greg nods.  “So, realistically, what changes now that he knows about us?”

Mycroft frowns and thinks about the question.  His instinctive response is to say— _everything, this is a disaster, nobody can know ever—_ but that’s not right.  That’s just habit and long held fears talking.  His relationship with Sherlock has never been easy but he knows his brother would not truly try to hurt him.  Accidentally, thoughtlessly, yes he would and has, but not with malicious intent.

“There will be some teasing,” he says finally.  “Some thinly veiled remarks over Christmas dinner, if he deigns to come.”  If anything, it will be a change of subject from the constant little jibes about his diet.

“Pretty sure you can handle that,” Greg points out.

“Yes,” Mycroft replies slowly.  It’s still embarrassing to think about; he was on his _knees_ in his pyjamas and Sherlock saw him.  But he can weather a little embarrassment.  Greg is easily worth that.

“Good,” Greg says.  “You feeling better?  Ready to come back down?”

Suddenly the idea of being under, safely beneath all worrisome thoughts of the look on Sherlock’s face and his warning ( _Do try not to completely alienate him_ ) is wonderfully appealing.  He wants the quiet.  He’s so tired and the thought of drifting peacefully makes something tug and twist in his chest.

“Yes,” he says.  “ _Thank you._ Yes.”


	4. First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We have at long last arrived at the porn, but the story isn't over yet.

“How’s that?” Greg asks.  “Not too tight?”

“It’s good,” Mycroft replies.  He can hear the slur in his own voice, the words slow and heavy.  Greg has cuffed him before; he has bound Mycroft’s hands plenty of times, but he’s never been tied so thoroughly and it’s addictive, intoxicating.  The soft cloth straps around his ankles keep his legs snug against the bed.  The padded leather cuffs encasing his wrists halfway up the forearm keep his arms spread. 

He can bend his elbows a little or shift his hips on the bed, but that’s all.  Every restraint makes him feel lighter.  They remove all responsibility: take away the burden of choice.  He has no control over the situation and so he can’t do anything wrong.  Nothing is his fault.

“Beautiful,” Greg purrs, low and smug.  “Look at you.  You’re deep already, aren’t you?  You love this.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees, the word stretching out into a low hiss of sound.  It’s hard to form words properly.  Every muscle in his body is so limp and relaxed that even his mouth doesn’t want to cooperate.

“Good,” Greg says.  “So good.  Listen now.  This is important; I need you listening.  You hear me?”

With effort, Mycroft rouses enough to open his eyes and focus on Greg.  “Yes,” he says.  “Listening.”

“Okay.  I’m going to touch you now.  I know being restrained relaxes you, that’s obvious, but try to stay with me.  I need you to pay attention.  You have to be able to tell me if you want to stop.”

_Oh._ Mycroft catches his breath and stares at Greg.  “What are you going to do?”

“I just want to feel you,” Greg says.  “You don’t have to do anything but lie still and enjoy it.  If it’s too much, or I’m going too fast, you tell me right away.  Understand?”

Mycroft nods. "Why now?  I mean, we've been together every night for weeks.  What made you decide on tonight?"

"Actually," Greg says, "It was Sherlock."

" _What_?"

Greg laughs.  "No, no, when he walked in on us.  I know it's been hard for you to relax and go all the way under, and I thought it was going to be this big setback.  You'd be worried and always listening and tense."

"I see," Mycroft says slowly. "But..."

"But you weren't," Greg finishes.  "Yeah, you did insist on me getting better locks--"

"Your previous lock was clearly inadequate," Mycroft interjects.

"Right, right," Greg says.  "And I got it changed, didn't I.  But after that you were okay.  You could come here after work and slide right down.  You _trusted_ me."

"I... yes."  The words come out soft and dazed.  Mycroft hadn't even realized it was happening but somehow, Greg is right.  Even now he's bound hand and foot: completely helpless and at Greg's mercy and he's never felt so safe.

Greg smiles.  " _That's_ what I was waiting for." He puts a hand in the centre of Mycroft's chest and gives him a long, serious look.  "I'm trusting you here too," he says.  "I expect you to be honest with me and tell me if you need to stop."

“I will," Mycroft promises.  "I _have_ done this before, you know.  Granted it’s been some time, but it’s not necessary to treat me so carefully.”

“I decide what’s necessary,” Greg replies.  Then he leans forward and kisses Mycroft.  His mouth is warm and firm, the tip of his tongue a darting tease along Mycroft’s lower lip.  Mycroft draws in a sharp breath and his eyes fall shut.  His hands were bound the last time they did this too, but it’s different when his whole body is tied.  He has only one point of contact and it intensifies the sensation. 

He kisses back, tentatively licking into Greg’s mouth, nibbling on his lips.  He sucks on Greg’s tongue when it comes into his mouth, trying to draw it deeper.  The heat and slick pressure of it do something to him, send his mind spinning back to his one and only experience with another man.  Before Sasha, when he was eighteen and reckless.  It is a stage all Holmes men seem to go through; one that Sherlock never outgrew. 

There had been a boy then.  A quiet, surefooted boy, he had caught Mycroft’s eye as they sat in the same lecture hall at Oxford.  He still remembers the dizzying rush of being put on his knees by that boy.  It was furtive and quick, just the one time; the boy standing over him with his cock heavy in Mycroft’s throat.  He remembers the taste of it and how utterly satisfying it had been to take him deep and feel him coming apart.

It’s been so long but he hasn’t forgotten how good it was.  He moans into the kiss and feels Greg’s lips curl into a grin. 

“Gorgeous,” Greg says.  “I love your mouth.”

Mycroft looks up at him.  “Will you take it, then?”

Greg’s eyes widen, then go dark.  “Bold.  I like it.”  He kisses once more, gently, and then turns his attention to Mycroft’s neck.  Mycroft shivers and turns his head to the side, giving Greg more room.  This is a new feeling and it sends sparks skittering over his skin.  In his admittedly limited experience, doms are interested in what their subs can do to make _them_ feel good, not the other way around. 

Greg kisses a line from Mycroft’s ear to his shoulder.  His chin is a faint scrape of stubble and warmth, waking the skin up and leaving it tingling.  His mouth is warm and wet.  He sucks hard just over Mycroft’s collarbone, then leans back with a satisfied sound.  “Been wanting to mark you for _weeks._ ”

“It’s, oh,” Mycroft mumbles.  “Good, that feels so… do it again?  Be careful with the marks.”

“Don’t worry,” Greg says.  “Nothing will show.  But you’ll be able to feel it; you’ll know it’s there.  Just the thought of you walking around running the country, prim and proper in one of your posh suits, with my marks still all over your neck…”  He grins wolfishly and kisses Mycroft hard.

Mycroft is bare from the waist up, clad only in his cotton trousers, and Greg’s hands are busy on his chest.  He strokes with his fingertips, trailing over Mycroft’s ribs.  Greg mouths the line of his collarbone and sucks another mark into his chest.  He licks confidently at one of his nipples and Mycroft shudders and twists on the bed.  The binding holds him secure so he can’t thrash and he’s glad of it.  He doesn’t have to try to control his reactions.

“Talk to me,” Greg says.  “I want to hear you. Tell me how it feels.”

“Good,” Mycroft replies.  “Amazing.  I didn’t know.  It wasn’t like this before.”

“Thought so.”  Greg licks at his nipple again, then puts his lips over it and sucks gently.  He catches the sensitive flesh between his teeth but just barely presses down.  “You like that.”

“Ye-es,” Mycroft says, his voice breaking over the word.  He squirms as Greg kisses down his belly.  A nervous pang twists in his stomach when Greg reaches his waist and he goes still. 

Greg stays there, lingering, his thumbs rubbing idle circles on Mycroft’s hips.  His breath is warm over his belly.  Mycroft can feel the material of his trousers stretched over his cock and even that faint pressure is delicious, teasing.  The way Greg is going, it seems like he’ll—but no, surely not, even the thought of it makes Mycroft feel strange.  It’s such an inherently submissive act in his mind.  He would be delighted to be on his knees with Greg’s cock in his mouth; it would be natural and fitting, but to have Greg do that for him?  He shifts uneasily and bends his legs as much as he can, drawing his knees closer together.

“Too much, then,” Greg observes. 

Mycroft looks down at him, startled.  Greg’s gaze is steady and calm but it sends another shiver of discontent through him just to see Greg like that, looking _up_ at him, mouth level with his hips.  “It’s… there is a way this is supposed to go,” Mycroft manages.  “It’s good, it feels good, but…”

“Okay, it’s all right.”  Greg slides back up and stretches out on his side, propping his head up in one hand.  The other sits warm and possessive on Mycroft’s chest.  “We’ll work up to that.  Because whatever you think the rules are supposed to be, the bottom line is if we both enjoy it, then we can do it.  And I can assure you,” he adds in a low, meaningful growl, “I would very much enjoy it.”  

Mycroft licks his lips and his cock twitches hopefully.  He’s not sure what to say; it throws him when he’s tied down like this, clearly in the submissive role, and then Greg wants to change the rules halfway through.

Greg gives him a wry smile.  “You’re so wrapped up in here,” he says, tapping Mycroft lightly on the temple.  “You spend too much time in your head telling yourself what you can’t have and not enough just enjoying what you really want.”

“Maybe so,” Mycroft replies.  He can’t deny his body’s clear interest; his trousers are tented rather obviously and just the thought of Greg’s soft mouth sends a warm, sweet throb through him.

“Now,” Greg says, “I’m going to put my hands on you, and you are going to try to relax and stop over thinking it.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to answer and then lets his breath out in a whistling rush when Greg’s hand lands firmly on his cock and squeezes him.  His hips jerk upward automatically, rubbing against the thin material and Greg’s warm palm, and sending a wave of heat spreading up his chest.  Greg stays there for several long moments, stroking him through the fabric of his sleep pants, the friction hovering somewhere between delicious and too much.

When he works the waistband down over Mycroft’s hips, Mycroft lifts them eagerly and moans in relief at the release of pressure.  The material winds up bunched around his knees, trapped by his bound ankles, and it’s just one more restraint.  There is a pause and Mycroft looks up at Greg, who is sweeping that steady gaze of his up and down Mycroft’s body with obvious greed. 

Greg meets his eyes and grins.  “The way you look,” he says.  “Bound and laid out for me.  Like a feast.”

Part of him (the part that is not at all accustomed to being put on display and admired so frankly) wants to deflect with some deprecating remark.  He even curls a little on instinct, but is brought up short by the cuffs.  He has no choice but to lie there exposed and there is something freeing in that.  There’s no need to be embarrassed; it’s not his fault.

So he lets a slow smile spread across his face and gives Greg a deliberately heated stare.  “Yes,” he says.  “Only for you.”  It’s a carefully chosen reply, designed to get a response.  Mycroft is well aware of the power of words; he uses them as weapons every day.

Greg draws in a fast breath and his hands tighten on Mycroft’s hips.  “You,” he says, “are still _thinking too much_.”  Then he wraps one slippery hand around Mycroft’s cock and moves it in a slow, exquisite slide.

Mycroft rolls his head on the pillow and pulls tight against his bindings.  He pants for breath and shudders as Greg’s thumb swipes around the crown.  He can’t even remember the last time he came; it was always unsatisfying alone, and since meeting Greg he wouldn’t have felt right doing it without permission.  There is a world of difference between a meagre wank in the shower a few months ago and what is happening now.

His thighs are spread, ankles held wide by the ropes, and he’s got no leverage to thrust.  He can only lie there and let Greg wring more helpless sounds out of him.  He bites his lip and wishes briefly for a gag; then he wouldn’t have to hold back at all.  _Maybe next time._

Greg twists his fingers around the head and rubs slickly over the foreskin with a few teasing strokes.  His other hand slips between Mycroft’s thighs and suddenly there are warm, slippery fingers on his perineum.  Mycroft jerks his head to the side and muffles a cry against his shoulder. 

“You like that,” Greg says, low and smug.  “Is that what you do when you touch yourself?  You use your fingers?”

“Sometimes,” Mycroft says.  His mouth is still pressed against his shoulder and he can taste his own skin.  He bites a little and laps at the salt tang of sweat.  It’s maddening to have nothing in his mouth.

“I want to watch you one day,” Greg says.  “Want to see exactly how you get yourself off.  I want to watch your hands and see your fingers sliding in.  Just like this.”  And he presses one long finger into Mycroft, coated with lube and shockingly intimate.

Mycroft shudders and presses back against the touch as much as he can.  The slow stretch is decadent and unravels him.  He squirms between the steady press of Greg’s fingers and the relentless strokes of his curled fist.  The cuffs are a constant pressure at his wrists and ankles and he’s deeply grateful for it.  They mean he is not being greedy or selfish for accepting all this pleasure without giving any back; he has no choice but to lie still and take it.  He can enjoy it without a whisper of guilt.

A second finger joins the first and Mycroft scrabbles with his heels against the bed.  He can’t get any purchase and his breath catches in a high whine.  Greg chuckles and kisses his belly.  His fingers curl and press inside Mycroft, sliding sweetly into him, and then Greg finds just the right spot and strokes teasingly around it. 

“ _Oh,_ ” Mycroft pants, and bites at his shoulder again.  He wants to suck on his fingers, to have the taste of skin and pressure on his tongue, but his hands remain firmly bound out of his reach.  “Like that, more, I want…”

“Gorgeous.”  Greg leans up to catch his nipple between his teeth and Mycroft writhes.  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this?” Greg asks.  “Every time you sat at my feet, do you know how hard it was to control myself?  God, the _sight_ of you.”

He presses in harder, thrusting his fingers in earnest now, and his hand grows snug on Mycroft’s cock.  Mycroft’s focus narrows down to those two bright points of feeling.  He twists and bucks, secure in his bindings, and heat rushes from his scalp to the soles of his feet.  Greg rubs with his thumb just below the head, then slides the tip of his finger in little strokes right over the slit, so slippery it feels like a tongue lapping at him. 

Mycroft is speaking, he knows because he can feel his mouth moving, but he has no idea what the words are.  Babbled nonsense and begging, probably.  He tugs sharply at his wrist cuffs and arches his back and comes in hard, shivery waves.  Greg strokes him through it, his fingers pressing deep and wringing more sensation out of him until Mycroft goes slack and boneless on the bed. 

Greg surges up and kisses him, mouth eager and demanding, and Mycroft tugs his bottom lip into his mouth and sucks on it.  He pulls at Greg, nipping at his lips and tongue, trying to get more of him.  He wants the taste.  He wants his mouth on every bit of Greg that he can reach.  Greg threads his fingers into Mycroft’s hair and holds him close, licking into his mouth.  He’s breathing fast and Mycroft can feel him hard against his hip.

“Let me,” Mycroft mumbles between kisses.  “Please, I want you to, I want you in my mouth.  _Please._ ”

Greg scrabbles with his trouser button and then shoves everything down past his hips.  He kicks out of the trousers and pants.  He puts a hand behind Mycroft’s head and kisses him fiercely, then pulls him up and shoves two pillows behind him.  Mycroft winds up half-propped against the headboard, his arms stretched out to either side, pulled wide by the cuffs. 

Greg kneels over his chest.  The tip of his cock paints Mycroft’s mouth, dragging bitter salt tang along his lips.  Mycroft licks at him and Greg shudders.  His hips jerk forward and Mycroft draws him in, humming in satisfaction.  The sleek glide of skin over his tongue is intoxicating.  He stretches his neck out to take more, tugging fretfully against the cuffs. 

“Yes, oh,” Greg says.  His hand tangles in Mycroft’s hair, just cradling him.  He pushes until he comes up against the back of Mycroft’s throat and stays there, rocking slightly, making choked little sounds.  “Your mouth, fuck, you don’t even know,” he says.  “Do you remember last week when you got a phone call at my place?  And you were talking to some underling and you got all cold and official with him—really read him the riot act because he’d screwed up.  Every word out of your mouth was perfect, absolute icy precision and god, I wanted you.”

Mycroft closes his eyes.  He remembers how strange it had been to slip into his dom mask in front of Greg.  How he’d been worried that Greg would be upset or would disapprove.  More baseless fear, apparently.  He rubs the tip of his tongue in sinuous trails along Greg’s cock, then sucks hard, trying to get him even deeper.

“Ohhh,” Greg groans and gives in, thrusting faster.  Mycroft swallows around him every time he bottoms out, and adds a rub with the slick back of his tongue against Greg’s fraenulum.  The taste of musk and pre-come fills his mouth and he can smell Greg, rich and heady.  He hums encouragement and feels Greg shiver.

“Mycroft,” Greg pants.  “Close, m’close, jesus that’s good…”

Mycroft makes his lips a tight, slick ring and presses his tongue more firmly.  He leans into Greg as much as he can and takes him deep.  Then he stays there, swallowing, and Greg lets out a high keening sound.  His cock twitches and thickens and Mycroft feels him come.  He takes it all willingly and when Greg pulls back, Mycroft settles against his pillows with a long, contented sigh.

Greg sits back on his heels and gives Mycroft a dazed, brilliant grin.  “Seriously, how are you so _good_ at that?  I know it’s not practice.”

Mycroft curls his lips into a smug smile.  “I am always prepared,” he says.  “Proper research is essential.  I have long believed that knowledge is power.”

Greg huffs a startled laugh.  “Score one for book learning, then.  That what they teach you in public school?”

“Among other things.”

“You,” Greg says, shaking his head.  “Only you.  How did I get so lucky?”

Mycroft blinks and drops his gaze; he can feel the faint heat of colour in his cheeks.  “I often ask myself the same question,” he murmurs.

Greg kisses him; gently this time, slow and sweet.  His hand is warm and steady at the nape of Mycroft’s neck.  “Right,” he says.  “Going to untie you now.”

“Must you?” Mycroft asks. 

Greg just nods and slides off the bed.  He frees Mycroft’s ankles first, pressing a kiss to each as he removes the cloth bands.  He pulls Mycroft’s trousers the rest of the way off while he’s at it; they wind up in a heap on the floor.  When he releases the wrist cuffs, he is careful to support Mycroft’s arms and lower them to the bed gently.  He rubs the stretched muscles of his shoulders and makes a concerned sound when Mycroft winces.

“Bit sore, that’s all,” Mycroft says.  “I was pulling against them too much.”

“Want them looser next time?”

Mycroft shakes his head.  “I like them tight.  Besides…”  He shifts and glances down at his hands.

“What?” Greg asks. 

“I like to still feel it the next day,” Mycroft admits.  “Something to remind me.”

“Ah.”  Greg grins and gets back on the bed.  He pulls Mycroft into his arms, then throws the blanket over both of them.  Now that the sweat has cooled on his skin the warmth is welcome, and Mycroft burrows close, resting his head in the hollow of Greg’s shoulder.  “I’ll remind you every day,” Greg whispers to him.  “Won’t ever let you forget.”

Mycroft is glad Greg can’t see his face; it would show too much.  “Good,” he says softly.

“Good,” Greg echoes.  “Slip down now, nice and easy.  I’ve got you.  Relax and listen to my breathing.  Make yours match.  Slow, that’s right, just like that.”  His voice is soothing and patient and Mycroft drifts easily with it.  He is sleepy and sated and submission comes with no struggle, washing over him in a heavy gray wave.  _Finally,_ he thinks.  _I’m finally getting it right._


	5. First Fight

Mycroft lets his forehead rest against the cool window of the cab.  He’s slumped over, his shoulders in a tired curve and his hands tangled together in his lap.  His ribs still ache with each inhale but he can ignore it for the most part.  His eyes are gritty with exhaustion and his head pounds with a slow, relentless throb. 

Despite all that, he feels quiet in his mind, calm.  He’s just wrapped up a difficult treaty negotiation in Libya; one which involved a brief and rather uncomfortable kidnapping before his team extracted him.  Aside from the bruised ribs, the trip was a success.  He accomplished something meaningful with far reaching consequences.  This is why he chose his career and why he stuck to it with grim tenacity even when it required the sacrifice of his own personal needs.

In this case, it also required a last-minute unplanned trip out of the country that kept him there for four days.  He’s barely snatched a few hours of sleep since leaving London and he’s already anticipating the relief of curling up with Greg and sinking under.  He can’t text: his phone was a casualty of the kidnapping escapade, but it’s Saturday so he heads to his own flat.

When he gets to his door he fumbles with the keys for a while.  His hands are uncooperative and he leans against the door frame, blinking sleepily at his keys and trying to find the right one.  This should be easy, automatic, but he’s caught somewhere between the first anticipatory stages of submission and sheer bloody tiredness and he can’t make it work.  He rattles the door knob hopefully and sighs.

He’s almost got the right key when the door suddenly jerks open in front of him and he nearly falls forward.  Greg catches him about the shoulders and drags him into the flat.  The door slams shut behind him.  Mycroft goes still; he may be exhausted but he has not lost his ability to observe.  Greg’s clothes are rumpled and creased ( _he’s been wearing them for at least two days straight_ ), he’s unshaven and his fingers are twitching ( _too much caffeine_ ), there are dark hollows under his eyes ( _no sleep for two, possibly three days_ ), and his mouth is set in a hard, angry line.  ( _Mycroft has done something wrong_.)

“Where the _hell_ have you been?”

Mycroft stares at him.  “I had to… I was called away.  For work.”

“And you just vanish off the face of the earth for a week?” Greg shoots back.

A cloak of icy calm falls over Mycroft; it’s his old fallback, his automatic defence mechanism.  “Hardly,” he says.  “I was unavoidably detained for four days outside the country.  There is no need for dramatics.”

Greg narrows his eyes.  “Dramatics,” he echoes, and a dangerous note enters his voice.  “You disappear, I hear nothing from you for days, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

“I am not your property,” Mycroft replies.  “You knew this was a possibility when we started our arrangement.”

“And I asked you for _one thing_ , didn’t I?” Greg says.  “One thing, just tell me where you are.  That’s all I asked for.  You couldn’t get me a message?”

“No,” Mycroft says.  He’s standing at his full height; his chin is up and his eyes are distant and cold.  He has faced off against angry doms plenty of times in his life and he will not quail before this one, no matter how his gut twists at the look on Greg’s face.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through?”  Greg throws his hands in the air and turns, stalking across the living room.  “You leave for work one day and I think everything’s fine, and then you don’t come back and I can’t reach you.  Your phone suddenly quits working, I get nothing but an error message, and nobody knows anything.  I even asked Sherlock.”

“You did _what_?” Mycroft interrupts sharply.

“Jesus, not this again,” Greg groans.  “He already knows about us, or did you forget?  This damn paranoia of yours…”

“It’s not _paranoia_ ,” Mycroft snaps.  “It is absolutely crucial that my nature remain private and it has cost me very dearly indeed to keep it that way.  I will thank you not to take it so lightly.”

“Well I’m sorry, but for all I knew you were dead in a ditch somewhere,” Greg replies.  “Excuse me for having other things to worry about.”

Mycroft can hear the tremor in Greg’s voice and he drops his eyes briefly.  “I did warn you,” he says.  “I specifically said that I would sometimes be gone for days at a time on short notice.  Don’t act surprised now.”

“All you had to do was send me one message,” Greg insists.  “Was it really not possible?  One note—‘Hey Greg, I’m going to be gone for a few days, letting you know so you don’t go out of your head worrying about it.’ You couldn’t do that?”

“I didn’t know at the time it would take so long,” Mycroft hedges.  “There were complications.”

Greg gives him a hard, narrow stare.  “What sort of complications?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Mycroft retorts before he can think about it.

“Yes it is!  _Everything_ about you is my concern!”

“Don’t do this,” Mycroft says evenly.  “I said there would be things you didn’t know about me.  I said my job was demanding.  Don’t make me choose between you and my work.”

Greg’s hands fall to his sides.  His face goes blank.  “Why?” he asks softly.  “Because I’ll lose?”

_No, I will,_ Mycroft thinks.  He says nothing.  There is no right answer to that question.

“Right,” Greg says.  He nods slowly and a muscle twitches in his jaw.  “Right, then.  I see.”  He turns and walks toward the door.  Mycroft watches him go. 

Everything in his head is shouting at him in conflicting voices.  He wants to chase after Greg and plead with him to stay but at the same time he can’t go through this again.  He’s been down this road before and he knows where it ends.  He is Mycroft Holmes and he does not _beg._

Greg slams the door behind him.  Mycroft flinches a little at the sound and braces one hand against the back of the sofa; his knees are trembling mutinously.  He blinks down at the floor, then puts his other hand over his mouth.  He’s shaking: his heart thumping heavily, his skin cold.  He should be thinking of solutions and next steps but his mind is frighteningly blank.

He’s not sure how long he stands there.  When the door opens his head comes up fast.  Greg stands in the doorway and looks at him for a long moment, then stalks into the room.  He stops in front of Mycroft and slowly, deliberately, leans in.  Greg’s arms go around his waist and pull him close.  Mycroft shudders and makes a choked sound; his shoulders slump and he buries his face in the hollow of Greg’s neck.

“Got a block away and realized I was making a huge mistake,” Greg murmurs.  He turns his head to kiss Mycroft’s temple and his hands clutch tight at Mycroft’s shirt.

Mycroft doesn’t speak.  He breathes a ragged exhale against Greg’s neck and wraps his arms around the other man. 

“I’m sorry,” Greg says.  “I am, truly, I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.  I was just tired and worried and when you didn’t come home I was so _scared._ ”  His voice falters and Mycroft squeezes his eyes shut and holds him closer.

“I should have told you I was leaving London,” Mycroft says.  “I didn’t think.  I got focused on the work and it didn’t even occur to me.”

“You, miss a detail?”  Greg strokes his back in a long, soothing slide.  “That’s not like you.”

“I know,” Mycroft says.  “It’s… my life is partitioned.  There is who I am with you and who I am at work.  I have to keep it divided.  So when I was at work, I wasn’t thinking of you.  I’m sorry you were worried.”

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” Greg replies.  He leans back enough to cup Mycroft’s jaw in one hand and kisses him gently.  “You are, aren’t you?  Everything go well?”

“The resolution was satisfactory,” Mycroft says.  “I still can’t go into details…”

“That’s fine,” Greg says.  “I understand.  You were clear about this from the beginning and it’d be pretty hypocritical of me to complain now.  I only want to know that you weren’t hurt.  You didn’t sleep well; that much is obvious.”

Mycroft hesitates.  He doesn’t want Greg to get upset again but since the start of their relationship, Greg has insisted upon honesty.  “There was… a minor incident,” he admits.  “I was examined by our staff doctor and I’m fine.”

Greg looks him over rapidly.  “Show me.”  Then he holds up a hand, shaking his head.  “No, wait.  We should do this right.  Go get changed.  Take your time and relax; start coming down slowly.  I’m going to take proper care of you.”  He gives Mycroft a little push toward the bedroom.

Mycroft starts walking automatically but has to glance over his shoulder to make sure Greg is still there before he leaves the room.  Greg meets his eyes.  He still looks worn and ragged but his calm, steady gaze is back.  He is like a stone in the middle of the flat; something solid and stable that Mycroft can lean on.  Just the sight of him is comforting.

He drifts down the hall, and by the time he’s got his shirt and waistcoat off he’s floating, quiet washing over him.  Some part of him wants to worry and yammer and make anxious circles in his mind ( _he left, he was leaving you, what if he does it again, what are you going to do?)_ but he shushes it.  Greg came back.  He apologized.  He is human and he makes mistakes, but he came back.  Mycroft can trust him.

Mycroft considers his reflection in the mirror over the dresser.  His fair skin is sprinkled heavily with freckles along his shoulders and back; his chest lightly furred with ginger hair.  He is still reasonably trim (no matter how many jokes Sherlock makes about his diet), if a bit soft around the middle.  Right now he’s more concerned about the wide blue-purple bruises spread over his ribs and back.  The kidnappers were a bit overenthusiastic with their efforts to subdue him.  The doctor confirmed he didn’t have any broken bones, but the muscles are sore and tender and every deep breath pulls at them.

He prods carefully at the edges of a bruise and winces.  Greg is not going to be pleased.  Mycroft takes a deep breath and lets it out, closing his eyes.  He pulls on a soft cotton tee and runs his fingers over the fabric.  He focuses on the quiet whisper of cloth against his skin.  The shirt is his, but their laundry has wound up mixed together enough times that most of his clothes carry a little of Greg’s scent.  It’s something unique; a mixture of them both. 

Mycroft folds his trousers and hangs them over the back of a chair.  The suit is clean (his assistant has an uncanny knack for producing a clean, pressed suit at a moment’s notice) but underneath he feels grimy.  Three showers since his brief abduction haven’t fixed that yet. 

Barefoot, clad in soft flannel trousers and the tee shirt, Mycroft pads back into the living room.  His shoulders are loose and his arms hang at his sides; his head droops a little, nodding forward sleepily.  He is pleasantly aware of the texture of the carpet under his feet and the touch of warm air on his skin. 

Greg is still standing in the same place.  There is a small, deep flicker of relief that he hasn’t left and it occurs to Mycroft he may not be completely over their argument, but he’s too far under to think about it now.

He stops in front of Greg and stands there, swaying slightly, waiting.  “Hey,” Greg says.  His eyes are warm and soft.  “How do you feel?”

“Good,” Mycroft says.  “Tired.  Bit sore.”

Greg nods.  “Stay right there.  I need you to stand still now, that’s right, good.  Just like that.  Close your eyes.  Now lean forward; you feel my hand?  Right, just follow where I’m taking you.  Nice and easy.”  Greg presses on the back of his neck and Mycroft leans obediently until his forehead rests against Greg’s shoulder.

“Good,” Greg says against his hair.  He holds Mycroft for a while, keeping him steady while he sinks further.  He maintains the pressure on the back of his neck and murmurs encouragement.  “Okay,” he says eventually.  “Straighten up now.  Keep your eyes closed, that’s good, just let me guide you.  Stay where I put you.”

Hands on his shoulders push him upright, and then they drop to his waist and draw his shirt up.  Mycroft doesn’t move.  There is a pause as the shirt passes his ribs and he can hear Greg’s breathing catch.  Warm fingers curl around his wrist and raise his arm, then tuck his elbow in.  The sleeve stretches around his arm as Greg takes it off.  Mycroft stands, docile, and waits.  The calm quiet stays with him as the shirt comes over his head.  There is a gentle touch to his chest, so light he can barely feel it.

The trousers come off faster.  Greg nudges his ankles to make him step out of them.  Then he turns Mycroft and presses his shoulders, walking him down the hall.  Mycroft keeps his eyes closed as he was told.  It’s a strange experience walking when he can’t see but he isn’t worried.  Greg will take care of it.

The floor changes to tile beneath his feet, and something about the way sounds bounce back around him indicate a smaller room.  The scent of soap finishes it and he realizes he’s in the bathroom.  Greg leans forward to speak quietly in his ear.  “Going to take my hands off you for just a moment.  Be steady, I’m right here.”

Given advance notice, Mycroft isn’t troubled when the warm touch leaves his shoulders.  He is distantly aware that Greg is moving around, rustling things, and he could deduce the actions from the sounds if he listened carefully but he doesn’t bother.  He doesn’t need to think or be aware of his surroundings.  He was told to stay, so he stays.

The tub faucet turns on and the steady rushing sound of the water mixes with the white noise in his head.  Mycroft smiles.  Greg slips around behind him and presses against his back, arms linked around his waist.  He’s naked and feels very warm.  They stand in silence while the tub fills; Greg drops little kisses on his shoulders from time to time.

The water is hot when Greg guides him into the tub.  Mycroft lets himself be steered and winds up settled between Greg’s legs with his back to the other man’s chest.  “Good,” Greg whispers in his ear.  “Relax and settle.  That’s right, lovely.  So good, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s head lolls against Greg’s shoulder.  He feels buoyant and dazed: drunk on heat and submission.  Greg scoops water over his chest in a steady rhythm.  More water trickles from his cupped hands to run over Mycroft’s hair.  Greg tilts his head back and forth to wet his hair without getting any in his eyes.  Mycroft remains limp and lets Greg push him in any direction he pleases.

Greg works shampoo into his hair in small circles, rubbing with his fingertips.  The rich eucalyptus scent mingles with the steam rising off the water.  The last vestiges of his headache melt away under Greg’s hands and Mycroft sighs.  Greg takes his time with it.  He lingers over the muscles of his neck and strokes with his thumbs until everything loosens into liquid heat.

More water pours over his head.  There is something deeply soothing about remaining still and pliant as Greg touches and moves him.  It is like the sense of peace that comes with being securely tied down; he is not in control and doesn’t have to make any decisions. 

Greg soaks a cloth and then soaps it.  He lifts each of Mycroft’s arms and washes them in turn.  He takes a long time on Mycroft’s hands, rubbing the palms and stroking his fingers.  He’s very careful over his chest and sides.  Greg trails the cloth over the tender skin.  He pushes Mycroft forward, props him up, and soaps his back.  Mycroft lets his head hang down and breathes in time with the long strokes up and down his spine. 

By the time Greg has turned him and paid equal attention to his legs and feet, Mycroft is half-asleep and utterly relaxed.  The heat and gentle massage have left him with only a faint ache over the worst of the bruises, easily ignored.  His skin is pink and clean and he feels brand new. 

Greg has to pull him to his feet and nearly lift him out of the tub; his legs don’t want to cooperate.  He leans against the wall as he is patted down with a towel.  His eyes are still closed.  There are more sounds: water dripping and the rustle of cloth and soft pad of footsteps, but Greg is careful to stay close to him.  Mycroft is never without his tether.

Hands on his shoulders walk him into the bedroom and Greg arranges him on the bed.  He curls up beside Mycroft and draws him close.  He nuzzles into the hollow of Mycroft’s neck and takes a deep breath.  “That’s better,” he says.

“Mmm,” Mycroft replies.  He can feel Greg’s breathing; they are pressed together and every inhale rocks him.  It feels like floating in the ocean.  He is somewhere closer to asleep than awake and he can almost hear the waves.

“Good,” Greg murmurs.  “Go to sleep now.  I’ll be right here with you.”

That is the last thing he needs and Mycroft slips over the edge and falls deep.


	6. First Time Mycroft's Secret Got Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Tremendous thanks to SailorChibi for the kindness and the excellent beta work on this story.

Mycroft mixes the diced mushrooms and tomatoes together, then sprinkles in a little salt.  The eggs sizzle invitingly when he adds the vegetables.  He wields a spatula at them, arranging everything in an even layer.  The shredded cheese on top goes in just as the eggs begin to grow fluffy.  Mycroft folds the omelette over carefully, arranging a perfect semicircle.    
  
“Hey,” Greg says, coming up behind him.  He puts his arms around Mycroft’s waist and rests his chin on his shoulder.  “That smells amazing.”  
  
Mycroft tilts his head to the side and Greg takes the invitation, pressing a kiss to his neck.  A pleasant shiver runs down Mycroft’s back.  “Mmm,” he says.  “Wait till you taste it.”  
  
Greg chuckles.  “You’re going to spoil me.”  
  
“That is precisely my intention,” Mycroft replies.  
  
“I suspected as much.”  Greg gives him another kiss, then moves away to lay plates on the table.  “What have you got today?”  
  
“Meetings,” Mycroft sighs.  “I may get to make some polite, thinly veiled threats to certain recalcitrant members of Parliament.  That will at least be moderately entertaining.”  
  
“Nice,” Greg says, grinning at him.  “I’m going to be buried in paperwork most of the day.  It’s time for quarterly evaluations.  Your day sounds way more interesting.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Mycroft says.  “But the possibility exists that you will, at some point, be required to chase someone through the back alleys of London and handcuff them.  That is very rarely in my schedule.”  He slides the omelettes neatly out of the skillet and onto a plate.  
  
Greg smirks and hands him a cup of tea.  Mycroft takes it and leans back against the counter, sipping slowly.  He eyes Greg over the rim.  “What?” Greg asks, catching him at it.  
  
Mycroft shakes his head.  “Nothing.”  
  
“Mycroft.”  Greg gives him a stern look.    
  
He’s not down, not in the morning while he’s wearing his suit and getting ready for work, but he drops his gaze anyway.  “Reflecting on my good fortune,” he admits.  “It still surprises me.”  
  
“Ah.”  Greg leans in for a kiss, sweet and lingering.  “Nearly three months,” he says.  “Not used to it yet?”  
  
“Most of the time.  There are still moments when it will catch me off guard.  The difference between my life now and my life as it was before.”  Mycroft presses his lips into a thin line and swallows.  “I remember a morning shortly after we first met.  The morning you came to my flat, actually.  I hadn’t slept well, not for days, and all I could see ahead of me was more of the same.  There seemed to be no way out and it was…”    
  
“I know,” Greg says quietly.  He pulls Mycroft close and squeezes the back of his neck, then lets their foreheads rest together for a moment.  “I remember how you looked.  Just about killed me to see it.  Even then I needed to take care of you.”  
  
Mycroft nods.  “Thank you for convincing me to try,” he says.  “I know I’m not always the easiest sub to keep.”

“Anyone can be easy,” Greg says.  “That’s why it’s called easy.  You are something else entirely.  I wouldn’t change a thing.”  
  
“Yes, well,” Mycroft says, ducking his head.  He clears his throat and turns, picking up the plate with the omelettes.  “These will get cold,” he says.    
  
“Can’t have that,” Greg replies lightly, letting him pull away.  
  
They sit down and have their breakfast (Greg makes a very satisfying noise when he tastes his omelette) and wind up lingering longer than they should, talking over tea.  Mycroft loves the submissive side of being with Greg; it fills a need in him that had been denied far too long.  But he loves this part as well: their calm mornings as he makes the gradual transition into his daytime role.    
  
It’s much easier now that they’ve created little routines and signals for themselves.  Mycroft’s clothes are one of the signs; he always wears sleep clothes when he’s sliding down and puts on his suit as he armours himself for the day ahead.  Once they leave the bed in the morning and he’s dressed he doesn’t slip back down.  He doesn’t sit at Greg’s feet during breakfast and Greg doesn’t give him orders.  By the time he leaves for work he is ready to wear the mask.  
  
Greg checks his watch and sits up straight, raising his eyebrows.  “Damn, I’m late,” he mutters.  “Got to run.  See you tonight.”  He pulls Mycroft to his feet for a quick kiss goodbye, then grabs his jacket and darts out the door.  
  
Mycroft has a little more time (there are _some_ advantages to being the man in charge, after all) and he does the washing up, humming quietly to himself.  He’s grinning for no reason at all.  He catches himself at it as he walks through the living room and sees his reflection in the window.  He gives a soft huff of laughter and is about to pick up his umbrella and head out when he is brought up short by a knock on the door.  
  
He frowns, considering.  It’s Greg’s flat and he doesn’t typically get visitors.  Then he notices the keys still sitting in a dish on the bookshelf and nods: Greg forgot his keys and locked himself out.  He must have just realized and come back for them.  Mycroft opens the door, an amused remark about Greg’s forgetfulness already on his lips.  
  
It’s not Greg.  His assistant stands in the hall, tapping at her phone.  She glances up at him.  “Sonia today, sir,” she says.  “Location was changed for your first meeting.  You would have been late if you went to the office first so I came to pick you up.  Are you ready?”  
  
Mycroft stares at her.  He’s still holding onto the doorknob and his knuckles have gone white as he grips it.  His knees lock in place and he sways.  A rush of cold prickles from his scalp to his fingertips.  His vision fades to a blank swimmy gray for a long moment.  When it clears everything seems very sharp, over bright.  He can hear his breathing, thin and rasping in his ears.  
  
“Sir?”  She glances up again and her eyes widen.  “Are you all right?  You don’t look well.”  
  
Mycroft’s mouth works and then, through sheer force of will, he pulls himself together.  “Fine,” he says.  His voice sounds very strange, as if it belongs to someone else.  “I’m ready.  Let’s go.”  
  
She nods and turns.  He follows her down the hall.  He focuses very hard on making his feet go in a straight line.  His knees keep threatening to buckle.  He keeps his back straight and his shoulders level; his face feels numb but he’s reasonably sure that his expression is blank.  Sonia doesn’t look at him oddly as he gets into the waiting car with her so it must be sufficiently convincing.  
  
As they pull away from the curb, he gives her a sidelong glance.  She is focused on her phone as usual but they’ve worked together for years and he’s quite aware that she is not so easily distracted.  She is always paying attention.  The phone is mostly a habit to make people assume she isn’t listening and let their guard down.  
  
“Perhaps you’d like to tell me,” he begins carefully, “just how you knew where I would be?”  
  
She raises an eyebrow.  “Sir?”  
  
Mycroft glances toward the driver and lowers his voice.  “That was not my flat.”  
  
“No,” she says slowly, puzzled.  “It was Inspector Lestrade’s flat.  Today is Thursday, sir.  You always spend weeknights there.”  
  
Mycroft maintains his still, flawless exterior.  “I see.  Is this common knowledge?”  
  
“Only to myself and a few members of your security team,” Sonia says.  A line appears between her eyebrows as she frowns at him.  “You… you did know I was aware, of course.”  
  
“Aware,” Mycroft echoes thinly.  “Of what, exactly?”  
  
“Of your association with Inspector Lestrade,” she replies.  The look she directs at him is disbelieving and just a little insulted.  “Sir, I am responsible for your security.  It is a primary part of my job.  Of course I kept track of your location.  I also ran a background check on the Inspector when it became obvious that you would be spending more time together.  He came back clean, by the way.  Some minor shoplifting offences as a teenager but nothing serious.”  
  
Mycroft nods.  It takes all his considerable focus to remain visibly unruffled.  “Are you also aware of the… nature of my association with him?”  As soon as he asks the question he wants to take it back; why invite speculation?  But how can she not know?  It must be terribly obvious.  And he wants the answer: better that than the uncertainty.  
  
“Of course,” she says calmly.  “I couldn’t miss what it’s done for your health.”  She hesitates, then adds, “If I may ask a personal question sir, why didn’t this happen sooner?  I’ve worked for you four years and this is the first time since I started.”  
  
He blinks at her.  Mycroft is not easily thrown, not easily rattled, but he can’t make his mind grasp this.  She’s still calling him sir.  She can’t possibly know, not all of it.  Maybe… maybe she thinks Greg is the sub?  But no, that‘s not possible, not if she ran a check on him.  It would be a matter of record in the psych evaluation for police work.    
  
The only other explanation, though, is that he and his assistant are sitting in a car having a calm conversation about his deepest secret as if it doesn’t matter.  Mycroft wonders briefly if he might be dreaming.  Perhaps he’s been kidnapped again and injected with something and this is all a hallucination.  Maybe he finally broke under the strain of hiding everything and he’s in a padded room somewhere.  Maybe his entire relationship with Greg was the product of a fevered imagination.  
  
He remains silent, but something must show on his face because Sonia’s expression softens.  “Oh,” she says.  “Oh, _sir_.”  
  
“You know, then,” Mycroft says.  “All of it.  You…”  He clenches his jaw and finds the calm mask.  His voice steadies.  “You’ve known for some time, I presume?”  
  
“Yes.”  She regards him with compassion.  “It doesn’t matter, sir.  It really doesn’t.  To some people, maybe, but not to anyone who knows you.”  
  
“You never said anything.”  
  
She shrugs.  “I assumed the act was so you wouldn’t encounter any prejudice from people who still hold misconceptions about subs.  It’s very convincing.  It took a few months working for you before I figured it out.  You didn’t bring it up so I assumed you didn’t want to talk about it.”  
  
Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment.  A few months.  She’s known for years.  “What gave me away?”  
  
“Mostly the way you treat other subs,” Sonia replies.  “It’s hard to describe.  You’ll give orders if necessary but you don’t do it casually.  Like… if we have a lunch meeting or something, and the waiter is a sub, you ask for things.  It’s a request, not an order.  It’s subtle but you’ve taught me quite a few things about observation, sir.”  
  
“I see,” Mycroft says.  “Well.  Thank you for pointing that out.  I’ll correct the behavior.”  
  
“If you like,” she says.  “It’s not really necessary.”  She leans forward earnestly.  “I was very careful.  The members of your security detail who know about this are hand-picked.  I trust their discretion.  And you can trust mine.”  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft says faintly.  “Yes, clearly.  And this doesn’t… affect your perception of my ability to do my job?”  
  
Sonia gives him a wry smile.  “Four years, sir.  I’ve seen what you’re capable of.  The only time I was worried about your ability to do the job was before things started with the Inspector.  You seemed to be having a bad patch.”  
  
He gives a small, humourless laugh.  “A bad patch,” he says.  “Yes.  Something like that.”  
  
“But you’re fine now,” she says.  “Better than ever.”  She gives him a long, level look.  “I take my job seriously, sir.  My priority is the work and your safety; as long as those are taken care of what you do in your personal life is your business.”  
  
Mycroft’s head is spinning.  He stares blankly out the window for a moment, trying to get his bearings.  Everything he’s believed for most of his working life has just been turned inside out and he’s got maybe ten minutes to assimilate all this and be ready for his first meeting of the day.  He misses Greg with a sudden painful fierceness; being taken down for just a few minutes would be exquisitely calming.  
  
But that is not an option, and neither is curling up in the backseat and having a quiet nervous breakdown.  So Mycroft lifts his chin, squares his shoulders, and pulls on his cloak of icy superiority.  Sonia watches him do it, and gives him a small nod.  She goes back to tapping on her phone.  
 _  
Get through the day_ , Mycroft thinks.  _Deal with the rest of it later._  
  
*  
  
He’s on the way home when he gets a text from Greg.  _Forgot my keys.  Please tell me you’ll be home soon._  
  
 _Yes.  Ten minutes._ He hits send, then tilts his head down and stares at the seat in front of him.  Normally he’d be breathing and relaxing right now, getting ready to slide down, but he can’t.  He’s far too wound up to even think about it.    
  
His phone chimes.  _Good.  I’m sitting here in the hall like an idiot.  Why didn’t you text me that you were on your way?_  
  
 _Sorry.  Forgot._  
  
Mycroft closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose.  He’s had a headache all day.  The strangest thing was the way _nothing_ was different.  Sonia treated him just as she always had.  Everyone did.  He’d been constantly on guard, watching for the slightest indication that others knew his secret, but had seen nothing.  That wasn’t comforting, though; he hadn’t known about Sonia either.    
  
The phone buzzes again in his hand.  _Are you okay?  
  
 No. _  
  
Ten seconds after he hits send, his phone rings.  Mycroft presses it to his ear and closes his eyes.  “Greg.”  
  
“Are you hurt?  Did something happen?”  
  
“No.  Yes.”  Putting words together coherently feels like a monumental effort but just the sound of Greg’s voice is soothing.  He can feel the calm stealing over him, loosening the tension in his shoulders and easing the tight knot in his chest.  
  
“Can you talk?” Greg asks.  
  
“Not really,” Mycroft says.  “But will you?  Just talk to me.  Please.”  
  
“Yeah, all right,” Greg says.  Mycroft can hear the edge of worry in his tone.  “Had a case today.  Body in a skip.  Have I ever told you about Anderson?  He’s the new forensic tech so he gets all the dirtiest jobs.  Bit of a prat, too.  Anyway, we made Anderson go searching through the rubbish for evidence.  He got bits of carrot scrapings in his hair and nobody told him.  Walked around with it all day.  It made me smile every time I saw him, until he eventually asked me what the hell I was grinning at.”  
  
Mycroft lets the words wash over him.  He shuts out the sounds of traffic and the hum of the car engine and focuses on the familiar lilt of Greg’s voice.  It’s low and intimate in his ear.    
  
“I wouldn’t tell him, though,” Greg continues.  “I think somebody must’ve taken pity and pointed it out because the next time I saw him, he was cleaned up.  Gave me a look that singed my hair.  I just laughed and told him that’s why you wash up after a crime scene.  New guys always have to learn that the hard way.  I remember one of my first times out, some poor bastard had been hung upside down from a fire escape and bled out.  It was everywhere.  Didn’t realize until I got home that I had some on my shoes.  This was years ago, before they made you wear those little booties.  I can tell you I was damn careful where I stepped at a crime scene after that.”  
  
Despite the fairly gruesome subject matter, Mycroft feels better.  His mind has been running in anxious circles all day, but has finally settled.  A quiet haze  wraps around him and he sinks into it gratefully.  
  
“Mycroft?”  
  
“I’m here,” Mycroft says.    
  
“Want me to keep talking?”  
  
“Yes.  It’s helping.  Just a few more minutes, I’m almost home.”  
  
“Okay,” Greg replies.  “I was thinking about us going out of town this weekend.  I’ve got some time off coming.  Do you ever get vacations?  I’m sure you can arrange a couple days; you’re running the bloody country.  You can probably go on holiday whenever you like.  They wouldn’t dare tell you no.  Anyway, there’s this little cabin in the country, out in the woods, and it’s gorgeous this time of year.  It belongs to my brother but he said I could use it whenever.  I used to go there a lot but it’s been a while since I got away.  I think you’d like it.”  
  
“Sounds nice,” Mycroft murmurs.  “Peaceful.”  
  
“Yeah,” Greg says.  “That’s the word, all right.  Bit rougher than you’re used to; there’s no telly or internet and the only heat comes from the fireplace but it’s got power and indoor plumbing.  I think we ought to turn our phones off and just have some time to ourselves.  There’s a stream nearby packed with fish; we can grill them right out on the back patio.  The cabin faces east and the sunrise through the trees is really something to see.  Gets nippy in the mornings but we could curl up on the porch swing under a blanket and watch.”  
  
“I’d like that.”  Mycroft lifts his head and looks around as the car comes to a stop. “I’m here,” he says.  “Be right up.”      
  
Greg is waiting in the hall.  Mycroft walks straight into him and wraps his arms around Greg’s waist.  He lets his head drop onto Greg’s shoulder and leans on him.  Greg holds him close, one hand cupped around the back of his neck, fingers threading in his hair.  The other hand slips into his pocket and fishes out his keys.  Greg steers him toward the door, unlocks it, and walks them both into the flat.  
  
“Come on,” Greg says.  He leads Mycroft by the hand.  It’s not their usual method but Mycroft is content to let Greg take charge.  He stands quietly as Greg removes his suit and wraps him in a dressing gown.  Then Greg takes him back out to the living room and presses him down on the sofa.  Greg sits beside him and laces their fingers together.  
  
Mycroft looks down at their joined hands.  It’s a deliberate choice, he knows, that Greg sat him on the cushion and not on the floor at his feet.  He wants Mycroft relaxed but not fully under.  When he looks up, Greg meets his eyes and gives him an encouraging smile.  Waiting for Mycroft to start in his own time, then.  It is exactly this sort of small kindness that makes Greg so extraordinary.    
  
Mycroft takes a deep breath.  “My assistant came to pick me up this morning,” he says.  “She came _here_.”  
  
Greg raises his eyebrows.  “She knows?”  
  
“Yes.”  Mycroft squeezes his hands and Greg squeezes back in wordless reassurance.  “Apparently she has known for some time.  Since the beginning.”  
  
“Oh,” Greg says.  “You said she was sharp, but wow.  Is this going to be a problem?  I mean, if she’s known for a while and hasn’t said anything before…”  
  
Mycroft shakes his head.  “I don’t know.  She knows about you and she already knew about me.  For years.”  
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
“Very.”  Mycroft rubs a hand over his face.  “She’s not the only one.  She said a few people on my team know.  Apparently my secret is not so secret after all.”  He gives Greg a weak smile; it feels frayed around the edges.  
  
“That’s…”  Greg trails off, looking dazed.  “That’s good?  Isn’t it?  I mean, you were worried that people would treat you differently, that they wouldn’t respect you.  But obviously they still do, and they’re discreet about it.”  
  
“It can’t be that easy,” Mycroft says.    
  
Greg smiles.  “That’s what you said about us.”  
  
“Yes, but…”  He can’t put this into words properly.  Some part of him is still looking for the catch.  He’s spent too long hiding his secret to be comfortable with the idea of people knowing.  People he works with, people who see the act every day.  Perhaps Sonia has accepted him but not everyone will and it would only take one mistake.  One person saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and it would be all over.  Mycroft knows about secrets.  He deals in them like currency.  The more people who know a thing, the more likely it is to get out.  Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t.    
  
“Mycroft,” Greg says quietly.  “I think you’ve got this too built up in your mind.  For such a long time you’ve told yourself it would be the end of everything if people knew.  Maybe there’s even a time when that was true.  Fifteen, twenty years ago, when attitudes were different and you weren’t in the position you’re in now.  Yeah, prejudice still exists, I’m not denying that.  But it’s dying out a little every day and you are a powerful man.  It would take more than this to bring you down.”  
  
“Maybe,” Mycroft allows.  “The thought that she knows still bothers me.”  
  
“Of course it does,” Greg says.  “Must have given you quite a shock when she showed up here this morning, too.  This is something you’ve been scared of most of your life.  It actually turned out really well, but I don’t expect you to be instantly fine with it.”  
  
Mycroft quirks a small smile at him.  “Another bumpy road?”  
  
“Life’s full of them, I’m afraid.”  Greg cups his face and runs his thumb over Mycroft’s cheek.  “Worth it in the end, though.”  
  
He closes his eyes and leans into the touch.  A swell of helpless gratitude fills his chest and presses a thick ache into his throat.  “Greg,” he says softly.  
  
“Yeah,” Greg replies.  “I know.  This is going to be okay, it really is.  Trust me.”  
  
“I do,” Mycroft says.  “Take me down now?  I need to stop thinking.”  
  
“Of course.”  Greg guides him down to the floor.  Mycroft kneels and rests his head in Greg’s lap.  A firm hand curls around the back of his neck, holding him in place.  “Good,” Greg says.  “That’s right, just relax.  I’ve got you now.  Close your eyes.  Give me your hands.  Now curl your fingers… yes, perfect.  Keep your hands there.”  
  
Mycroft sinks fast; he always needs it more when he’s stressed and today was one for the record books.  Greg gives him a steady stream of orders and praise when he obeys them.  His voice is low and calm, full of assurance.  Mycroft goes limp as the tension melts out of him.    
  
He loses the awareness of his hands first, then of the floor beneath his knees.  He stops hearing the faint sounds of traffic outside and the soft tick of the clock.  He breathes automatically but he doesn’t feel it.  Everything fades but the warmth of Greg’s hand and the steady cadence of his voice.  
  
“Beautiful,” Greg tells him.  “So good, Mycroft.  Deep now, all the way.  I want you all the way down.  Let it all go.  I’m right here.  I’ll take care of you.  Shh… yes, that’s right.  All the way.”  
  
Mycroft breathes out and floats.  The words become a meaningless rush and then fade entirely.  Quiet reaches his core and fills him up.  He distantly feels something unravel; something tight letting go.  He is relaxed; he trusts.  Greg is there.  All the way.


End file.
